I'm Not Grieving For You, I'm Coming For You
by zippystripe
Summary: Ste struggles to cope with life after Brendan. Warning: it's very angsty.


Ste reached above his head, blindly grappling for the neck of the whiskey bottle and knocking a magazine and the tv remote off the coffee table in the process. He finally got hold of it, and the small amount of liquid sloshed inside with the force he used to lift it. Damn. He was expecting it to be at least half full. How many did that make now? He hadn't even kept count.

The light bulb in the kitchen was flickering again. It had been on the blink for a few weeks now. A few weeks since…

'Jesus, Steven, are you ever gonna fix that?'

Ste felt his eyes well up again. He let the tears fall freely - he was past caring about even wiping them away now. That wasn't his job. It was Brendan's job. And he wasn't here now, so they'd just have to fucking well fall, wouldn't they? They'd stain his shirt and his face, and that would be that. His nose would stay blocked, and his eyes would sting, red raw around the rims. He had a throbbing in his temples, though whether that had been brought on by the booze or his crying, he didn't know, nor did he care. He lifted the bottle to his lips again and downed the rest of the whiskey, wincing a little at the strong taste. He thought back to a night where they'd sat in Brendan's flat… it felt so long ago now. In reality, it wasn't.

They'd been cheated.

He sat still for a few moments, staring at the floor, watching where his toes met the carpet and his trouser legs dangled a little above his feet. The T.V. was off, the sink was full of dishes, the doors were double locked and it was pitch black outside the windows. He could've stayed there for hours, numbed by alcohol, empty, and void of any thought.

His lungs and his heart and his head felt heavy; it was as though he could feel each and every process his body was performing. His blood pumped through his veins, though Ste couldn't understand how that could be so. It was as if his body was running solely on grief, and grief alone, because he could no longer will himself to do it himself any longer.

Amy had taken the kids away again. She'd been here about a month ago, but now they were with her, and he'd asked for them to stay away. He'd been ignoring her calls. She'd probably turn up in a few days, knowing her. He couldn't hide forever.

Eventually, he stood up, and walked into the kitchen where the light flickered above his head, and the light flashed about the room as if there was a violent storm colliding with the sky outside. The house was a mess. He'd not done anything for weeks, it seemed. It was as if he barely existed at all.

He started looking about the room for a pen and paper. He found the back of an envelope and one of the those little blue pens he'd nicked from Argos, and he leaned on the worktop to scrawl a few directions. He couldn't spell half the words, but this only upset him more. He felt a tear drop onto the page, and he used his sleeve to dab it away.

He placed the pen down on the worktop and turned around, taking a deep breath. He looked up with wet eyes to the flickering light, and covered his hand with his sleeve to unscrew it. He sat down in the corner of the kitchen for what to him only seemed like a few minutes. He leaned his head against the cupboard, taking in the detail of the pattern on the ceiling. He looked forwards. There was the spot where Lucas took his first steps. Where he and Brendan had shared a kiss under the mistetoe. There was the spot where he and Cheryl had sat down to plan his wedding. Where he and Brendan had kissed after the first punch, right before they'd had sex for the first time. Where he and Amy had shared their explosive affair. Where he'd seen Doug with Leah curled up at his side on the sofa, sleeping, watching television in the evening. And now…

He smashed the lightbulb on the floor beside him, picked up a fragment of the glass, and carved the way home.

There was nothing left to do — he dropped the shard of glass on the floor as his hands became red —

— nothing left to say — he leaned his head back on the cupboard door —

— and nothing left to feel — his eyelids flickered shut as the life bled out of him, onto the floor of the home that had housed a lifetime.

He didn't think it was all that surprising.

He would've done the same.


End file.
